


sunlit days

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Essos AU, F/F, Outdoor Sex, Sansa married Joffrey and now that Dany took over is in exile in Essos, past allusions to abuse but they're very slight, with Myrcella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23193433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: The heat of Pentos in summer is unlike anything Sansa has experienced before. The sun beats down on her shoulders and sweat gathers at the nape of her neck before rolling down her back. She feels stifled in her skin, and longs for a sharp, cold breeze to whip through her hair and take her away.Myrcella doesn’t suffer as Sansa does. When Sansa voices her discomfort aloud, Myrcella smiles around her strawberry, a sharp flash of teeth before she bites into sweet flesh.~Or, Sansa and Myrcella on the run in Essos.
Relationships: Myrcella Baratheon/Sansa Stark
Comments: 17
Kudos: 78
Collections: ASOIAF Rarepair Week





	sunlit days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unorgaynized](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorgaynized/gifts).



> Written for the asoiafrarepairs day three prompt: sun

The heat of Pentos in summer is unlike anything Sansa has experienced before. The sun beats down on her shoulders and sweat gathers at the nape of her neck before rolling down her back. She feels stifled in her skin, and longs for a sharp, cold breeze to whip through her hair and take her away.

Myrcella doesn’t suffer as Sansa does. When Sansa voices her discomfort aloud, Myrcella smiles around her strawberry, a sharp flash of teeth before she bites into sweet flesh.

“My time in Dorne has acclimated me to it,” she explains, licking a droplet of juice from her finger. Sansa’s eyes follow the movement. If Myrcella’s mother were at the table with them, she’d slap Myrcella’s hand away, and tell her to behave like a lady. But Cersei isn’t here, and Myrcella licks her fingers clean. “It is not so torturous as it once was. You will come to like it, I think.”

Sansa cannot see herself enjoying it the way Myrcella does. The days are too long here. She longs for their end so she can sink into the cool bath her handmaiden prepares, so that she may drink water that is unheated. So that she can peel her dresses from her overheated body and be _free_ of the constraint of it all. 

It embarasses Sansa that even the past few nights have not cooled her blood enough, and she’d slept naked as her name day just to find some relief. 

Thank the gods Joffrey was still away, plotting his conquest. Sansa could not have slept so unclothed without fear of his advances if he were here with her.

She wishes she was back in King’s Landing, before the dragons came and forced them to flee into exile. No, she wishes she was in Winterfell, where even in the depth of summer, all Sansa would have to do for a breeze was walk on the walls with her mother.

“Mummy,” her little Robert lisps at her side. His chubby hands pull at the bottom of her gown, and Sansa has to catch the fabric of her neckline before it falls. She’s aware of Myrcella watching her, and her face heats.

“Yes, sweetling?” Sansa murmurs, and pulls him into her lap. Her dress pulls tight against her chest when she does so, and she surrenders, thankful that Ser Arys is _behind_ her and cannot see how indecent she looks.

She cannot say the same for Myrcella, whose eyes miss nothing. Sansa grimaces at her in apology for the breach of propriety, but makes no move to correct it. If Myrcella can lick her fingers at the table, Sansa can have some peace in this _bloody_ dress.

“I want to swim, mummy.”

Sansa sighs. “Robert, you know we must stay inside.”

“There’s a garden in the manse,” Myrcella says, as if Sansa didn’t know. “With a big fountain. There’s fish and frogs that our little prince may play with, and it’s not deep enough to be worrying for a boy his size.”

“It’s a bit too hot out today,” Sansa protests, although the squeal Robert gives before jumping out of her arms drowns her out. “I don’t want him fainting from the sun.”

Myrcella rises, and stretches like a cat. Sansa has to look away. “I’ll come with you,” Myrcella says, “and help you watch him. Ser Arys, please do let the servants know to stay away from the gardens. I’ll be taking a dip in the water, and I don’t want any untoward eyes on me.”

“Princess, one of the guards-”

“The guards may stay at the gate outside the garden,” Myrcella decides, before he can even finish. “We shall shout if a hoard of Daenerys’s assassins descend upon us.” She looks every inch a queen, even in the light, gauzy Pentoshi gown she’s adopted. She holds out a hand to Sansa, “Come, Sansa, let’s get you into something more suited for the heat.”

Sansa hesitates, staring at her fingers for a moment too long before allowing Myrcella to help her up.

  
  
  


Sansa feels undressed in Myrcella’s borrowed Pentoshi dress—in truth it feels more like a slip than a dress—but she cannot deny that it’s more comfortable than the silk she’d been trapped in since arriving here three moons ago. She sits on the edge of the fountain while little Robert and Myrcella splash about, and finds herself smiling at the sight. Robert could be Myrcella’s child, if not for his Stark eyes, and the two of them are beautiful to look at together. The heat doesn’t even bother her much today, and with the cool water at her feet and the warm stone under her, when sleep pulls at her, Sansa yields willingly. She’s been so _tired_ of late, unable to sleep for worry and fear, and no matter how luxurious this manse is, she longs to be _home_ , where she knows the game and how it’s played. For the first time since arriving, Sansa forgets about the war and dragons and Joffrey’s angry hands on her shoulders, and relaxes into the feeling of peace.

She isn’t sure how long it’s been when Myrcella wakes her, dragging her fingers softly down Sansa’s arm. 

“There you are,” Myrcella whispers, and her expression is almost soft. “I took our little prince inside, but I thought I’d leave you be a few more minutes. You looked so content I could hardly bring myself to disturb you.”

Myrcella’s hair shines gold in the late afternoon sun, a lion’s mane around her face. Sansa feels as if she’s been taken off-balance being woken so softly, and if she doesn’t place her foot just so, she’ll go careening off the edge.

“Thank you,” she says finally, mouth dry. Myrcella’s hand hasn’t left her shoulder. She traces idle patterns in the freckles of Sansa’s skin, eyes hungry.

Myrcella has done this dance with Sansa for moons now, this game of barely-there touches and _looking_ , of letting eyes roam and heat follow. Sansa’s not sure what _this_ is, but she thinks Myrcella wants to have her the way Joffrey has.

Sometimes, Sansa is inclined to let her.

Sansa stifles a gasp when Myrcella leans down and replaces her fingers with her tongue, a phantom touch that traces an invisible line only Myrcella can determine. Immediately, Sansa stiffens.

“Relax,” Myrcella murmurs against Sansa’s shoulder. “Shh, relax.”

But Sansa _can’t_ . She can’t breathe, she can’t move. She can’t open her mouth and demand to know what Myrcella is doing, _salvage_ this situation, pretend it never happened. Instead she stays still, blood rushing in her ears, as Myrcella presses another kiss to her skin. This time, there’s a bite of teeth.

“Sansa,” Myrcella says, and suddenly all of Sansa’s muscles loosen at once with a sudder. She can feel Myrcella’s satisfaction, wants to say, _See, I can be good, I can listen—_

But Myrcella isn’t Cersei, and Sansa doesn’t have to grovel. She decides to wait, breathless, and see what Myrcella will do. _She won’t take this further, this is some jest she’s playing on me. It must be. She’ll stop in a moment and laugh at me._

Myrcella does not stop or laugh. Myrcella’s fingers— _she licked those fingers clean on strawberries this morning—_ come up to the laces of Sansa’s dress, tug at the strings.

Sansa suddenly finds her voice, weak as it is between rapid breaths, “Myrcella, the _guards_ ,” but Myrcella pinches her nipple through the fabric, and Sansa has to bite back a moan.

“They’re outside,” Myrcella assures her, and suddenly her mouth is at Sansa’s neck, knee between Sansa’s knees, “they won’t hear a thing, if we’re quiet.”

Sansa can be quiet. Her fingers dig into the stone beneath her and she presses her lips closed.

She can’t help a small noise, though, when Myrcella takes a handful of her skirts and pulls it up past Sansa’s knees. 

Myrcella’s mouth is hot on Sansa’s jaw, and Sansa feels _scorched._ Deep in her core, a fire is building, and Sansa wants to let it consume her.

When Myrcella’s hand lands on Sansa’s thighs, insistent and warm, Sansa remembers herself and pulls her legs shut.

“Myrcella,” she whispers, “Myrcella—stop a moment, let me think.”

For a moment, Sansa’s chest is gripped with fear—perhaps Myrcella, just like Joffrey, won’t stop, won’t listen to her. But the fear is unfounded. Myrcella simply lifts herself up off Sansa and hovers, looking down at her. Her hair has fallen out of its knots, and it floats softly down on either side of Sansa, a curtain of gold. Through the strands, Sansa can see the sun shining.

Myrcella’s gaze is hungry when she regards Sansa, who is breathing hard and feels undone. The laces at her breast are untied, her skirts rucked up around her thighs, her hair probably a mess against the stones. Sansa doesn’t think she’d make a lovely sight, but the way Myrcella is looking at her…

“He doesn’t make it good for you,” Myrcella says, as if she _knows_. “I can make it good, Sansa. Better than you’ve imagined.”

“How do you know what I’ve imagined?” Sansa challenges. “How do you know I won’t just leave now and tell Joffrey what you’ve done?”

Myrcella grins her slow, predator’s grin. It’s different from Joffrey’s—sharper, more keen. Her mother’s daughter, on a softer face. “I don’t,” she says. “And you don’t either. I suppose we’ll have to trust one another.”

 _Trust?_ Sansa doesn’t think she’s quite capable of that, anymore. Still, when Myrcella’s knee slides up to press against her center, she lets her, puts a shaking hand in Myrcella’s golden curls and pulls her down for a tentative kiss.

Myrcella doesn’t do anything slowly, it seems. She deepens the kiss immediately, finishes untangling the knots in front of Sansa’s dress before pushing the cloth aside and leaving Sansa’s breasts exposed to the air. Sansa pulls out of the kiss, gasping, while Myrcella moves her hands down, under her skirts to where Sansa had—not realizing it—been rocking against her knee. 

“ _Gods,"_ Sansa cries out softly and Myrcella’s other hand has to cover her mouth to stifle the noise. Sansa nearly pushes her hand away, remembers the times Joffrey would—

Instead she tightens her hold on Myrcella’s hair, and screws her eyes shut. She can’t look, can’t look at what’s happening, or she’ll remember that they’re outside and the guards could come back at any moment and—

Myrcella’s fingers circle Sansa’s clit, and she begins to whisper in her ear—sweet nothings, Sansa assumes, like Joffrey does when he’s deep in his cups and forgets to hate her—but _no_ , Myrcella sounds almost like she’s taunting when she says, “He never touches you like this, does he? Do you make such noises for him, Sansa?” 

She says nothing, only shakes around Myrcella. Sansa wonders if perhaps Myrcella’s fingers are the only things tethering her to this world. She can’t feel anything other than the soft press of Myrcella’s fingers _into_ her, the circling, the way Myrcella’s hand tastes under her lips—salty and sweet, like sweat and strawberries—and the press of Myrcella’s heat against her thigh. The way she feels exposed and how that adds to the urgency of how Sansa moves against her.

It could be a year, or a minute, or an hour before Sansa’s back arches against the ground and she peaks. She’s glad for Myrcella’s hand against her mouth, though she wishes it had been her lips instead, soft and welcoming.

She catches Myrcella’s wrist when she’s done, and pulls it away shakily. Surprisingly, Myrcella twists her hand around, so she’s the one holding Sansa’s, and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

Sansa can’t help it. She feels the flush begin at her throat and stain her cheeks. Even with what they just did, what Myrcella did _to_ her...this feels more intimate than it all.

Myrcella sits back and Sansa realizes that while she’s nearly undressed, with the top of her dress gaping open and her skirts rucked up around her waist, Myrcella is, in contrast, fully clothed. Her hair is wild from where Sansa has pulled at it, but otherwise, she could walk into a Pentoshi court and none would be the wiser.

 _She fucked me,_ Sansa thinks wildly. _I look like she fucked me_.

She makes a movement to cover herself, but Myrcella shakes her head. “Look at me,” she says, her voice a quiet command. “I want to remember this.”

Sansa watches as Myrcella’s eyes roam every part of her, from her hair strewn about her to the way her chest rises and falls.

“Why?” Sansa asks, when she can speak without her voice shaking. “Why did you—”

Myrcella’s green eyes flash when they meet Sansa’s. They’re Joffrey’s eyes, Cersei’s eyes...but none of them ever gazed at Sansa like this. Sansa feels too warm, and not just from the Pentos summer heat.

“I was tired of just looking,” Myrcella says simply. “Besides, my brother is a blind fool for the way he treats you.”

“So this was out of the goodness of your heart, then?” Sansa asks, an edge of mockery in her voice. “You wanted to show me the pleasure your brother never could?”

Myrcella bares her teeth in a smile, pointed and sardonic. Suddenly, she doesn’t look like Cersei at all—it’s too unrefined, and that gives Sansa a small measure of comfort. “Perhaps I just wanted to take you for myself,” she says, and pinches Sansa’s thigh before smoothing her hand across the smooth expanse of it.

“I’m not a _thing_ to be taken,” Sansa protests, pulling up to her elbows. Myrcella’s eyes follow the movement, unreadable.

“No,” she agrees softly. “But I wanted to.” Myrcella leans forward suddenly, and kisses Sansa, slow and soft and deep. Sansa has never been kissed like this before. 

“Let me come to you tonight,” Myrcella murmurs between kisses. “Tonight, and every night. _Sansa.”_

“You can’t,” Sansa tells her. “Joffrey will be back soon, with his army. _We can’t_.”

“He won’t,” Myrcella says, and nips at Sansa’s lips. 

There’s something in Myrcella’s voice that makes Sansa pause, and lean back.

“What do you mean, he won’t?”

Myrcella’s lips are red, and when they curve into a smile, Sansa almost pulls her back. Instead, she waits. 

“You want to know why? Why today, after months of just looking, did I finally touch you?” Myrcella’s hand traces Sansa’s outer thigh, and Sansa shivers. “Because today I received a letter, Sansa. From the queen of the seven kingdoms. Sealed by both her and your half brother. Do you want to know what it said?”

“Yes,” Sansa breathes, heart jumping. “ _Yes.”_

“We can go home, back to Westeros. We can be safe, and Robert will be safe too. All we have to do, dearest Sansa, is kill my brother the king.”

And with that, Myrcella kisses Sansa again—and Sansa, dizzy, can only think _yes._

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this work, please consider leaving a comment! 
> 
> Also, hope this quarantine is treating you all well, and stay healthy!


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